this fight, and he’s asked one of them up here today to show these Manileño reporters what real soldiering looks like. “I think most of you probably know him. Your very own killer—
Efrem Khalid Bakkar
.” He pronounces the name so poorly that Efrem takes a minute to process it. When he does, he feels woozy with nerves.
Charlie stows the bullhorn and everybody turns to face Efrem. “Look at him,” the short man says. “If he weren’t such a darkie, he’d be white as a ghost.”
“So,” Charlie says, ignoring his companion. “Tell us a little something about your wonder boy, General.”
Brig Yapha claps a hand on Efrem’s shoulder, cheating him out toward the cameras. “Bakkar here is our undisputed best,” he says.“A graduate of the Scout Ranger School, he’s a tactical sniper with the highest number of confirmed kills in Boxer Division history. And, while I haven’t crosschecked this with AFP records, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has the highest tally of anyone, in any branch of our armed forces, ever.”
Charlie lets out a long, appreciative whistle, and the short man’s creepily intense stare grows more creepy, and more intense. Efrem feels like he really needs to sit down.
“And what’s he going to show us?” Charlie asks.
“Well,” Yapha says, “as he’s a sniper, it’s probably best if he gives us a little shooting demonstration. We have some targets up, and I think you’ll all enjoy watching him pick them off.”
His hand tightens on Efrem’s shoulder and together they turn to look into the far clearing. Sure enough, sometime during the brief speech one of the LRB soldiers had quit his chameleonic guard and set targets along the green at increasing distances, from 800 meters to about 1,800. More than just the traditionally crude wooden silhouettes, these targets are pasted over with the likenesses of regional and international terrorists—Kumander Robot, Abu Bakar Bashir, and old Osama himself.
“No point keeping us in suspense,” Yapha says, taking a step back. Charlie and the reporters step back as well. The short man stays where he is.
Everybody waits. Efrem looks at the distant targets. He fingers the safety catch on his empty Tingin rifle. He levels the empty rifle at the targets, and then lowers it again. What on earth do they want from him? Finally, Yapha comes to the rescue.
“What’s the matter, soldier?”
“I can’t,” Efrem says, his voice cracking like it’s old. Or very new.
“The hell you can’t,” Yapha says. “I’ve seen you hit harder than that, plenty. No need to be shy, son.”
“I’m not …” he waits. “I can’t. I can’t because my rifle’s empty.”
Some of the reporters gasp a little, and Charlie looks down at the ground like he’s really sad. Efrem feels like he could die.
“Jesus,” Yapha says, turning to Charlie. “I’m sorry about this, I should have—”
“Fuck no,” Charlie says. “This isn’t your fault, Tony. You were
just
up there. It’s not your job to beg for their help.” He turns, speaking now to the reporters. “Forgive the language, but it’s shit like this that drives me crazy. I hate being reminded so often why I,
an actor
, have to run for office when our country’s in the state it’s in. To come down here, and see arguably our best soldier standing around with an empty weapon, utterly helpless … it just makes me so angry I can hardly put words together. It seems that under this administration, the only soldiers who get any kind of support are the Americans. While our own troops are underprepared and underequipped. I mean, do you see the state of his gear?” Without looking at Efrem, he points back at him. At his dented helmet. At his oversized hand-me-down boots. He goes on a little while longer, but Efrem can hardly hear it for the blood filling his ears. He has never been so humiliated in his life.
But he keeps quiet, like Yapha told him, and the ridicule doesn’t last much
Efrem Khalid Bakkar
.” He pronounces the name so poorly that Efrem takes a minute to process it. When he does, he feels woozy with nerves.
Charlie stows the bullhorn and everybody turns to face Efrem. “Look at him,” the short man says. “If he weren’t such a darkie, he’d be white as a ghost.”
“So,” Charlie says, ignoring his companion. “Tell us a little something about your wonder boy, General.”
Brig Yapha claps a hand on Efrem’s shoulder, cheating him out toward the cameras. “Bakkar here is our undisputed best,” he says.“A graduate of the Scout Ranger School, he’s a tactical sniper with the highest number of confirmed kills in Boxer Division history. And, while I haven’t crosschecked this with AFP records, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has the highest tally of anyone, in any branch of our armed forces, ever.”
Charlie lets out a long, appreciative whistle, and the short man’s creepily intense stare grows more creepy, and more intense. Efrem feels like he really needs to sit down.
“And what’s he going to show us?” Charlie asks.
“Well,” Yapha says, “as he’s a sniper, it’s probably best if he gives us a little shooting demonstration. We have some targets up, and I think you’ll all enjoy watching him pick them off.”
His hand tightens on Efrem’s shoulder and together they turn to look into the far clearing. Sure enough, sometime during the brief speech one of the LRB soldiers had quit his chameleonic guard and set targets along the green at increasing distances, from 800 meters to about 1,800. More than just the traditionally crude wooden silhouettes, these targets are pasted over with the likenesses of regional and international terrorists—Kumander Robot, Abu Bakar Bashir, and old Osama himself.
“No point keeping us in suspense,” Yapha says, taking a step back. Charlie and the reporters step back as well. The short man stays where he is.
Everybody waits. Efrem looks at the distant targets. He fingers the safety catch on his empty Tingin rifle. He levels the empty rifle at the targets, and then lowers it again. What on earth do they want from him? Finally, Yapha comes to the rescue.
“What’s the matter, soldier?”
“I can’t,” Efrem says, his voice cracking like it’s old. Or very new.
“The hell you can’t,” Yapha says. “I’ve seen you hit harder than that, plenty. No need to be shy, son.”
“I’m not …” he waits. “I can’t. I can’t because my rifle’s empty.”
Some of the reporters gasp a little, and Charlie looks down at the ground like he’s really sad. Efrem feels like he could die.
“Jesus,” Yapha says, turning to Charlie. “I’m sorry about this, I should have—”
“Fuck no,” Charlie says. “This isn’t your fault, Tony. You were
just
up there. It’s not your job to beg for their help.” He turns, speaking now to the reporters. “Forgive the language, but it’s shit like this that drives me crazy. I hate being reminded so often why I,
an actor
, have to run for office when our country’s in the state it’s in. To come down here, and see arguably our best soldier standing around with an empty weapon, utterly helpless … it just makes me so angry I can hardly put words together. It seems that under this administration, the only soldiers who get any kind of support are the Americans. While our own troops are underprepared and underequipped. I mean, do you see the state of his gear?” Without looking at Efrem, he points back at him. At his dented helmet. At his oversized hand-me-down boots. He goes on a little while longer, but Efrem can hardly hear it for the blood filling his ears. He has never been so humiliated in his life.
But he keeps quiet, like Yapha told him, and the ridicule doesn’t last much
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